Why (and how) a pair of busy mothers make time to train for races, and why (and how) you should, too.

I have half a mile left in this morning's run. For an experienced runner like me—I've been loping around for 20 years—a teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy half of a mile is nothing, right? Wrong. Because this half a mile is actually 800 meters on a track at a local middle school, and I don't do speed well, either mentally or physically. I'm I almost 6 feet 4 inches tall, and while it would seem like my long legs should be an attribute, in reality, my big, overreaching strides lead to aches and pains, which I've learned the hard way too many times. To add insult to potential injury my head is as good at persuading my body to hang in that leg-and lung-incinerating red zone as my two kids are about eating hamburger-spinach casserole without gagging. Not good at all.

You might ask, as I do with almost every pseudo-speedy-ish step I take, "Why?" Why in the name of all that is good in the world am I, a mediocre, unnatural runner, out here at 6:13 on a Thursday morning forcing myself to lap a middle-school track, a place that as a teenager I hated more than parties with those awkward Spin the Bottle kissy games?

Good question. Despite being a mediocre, unnatural runner, I've clomped through two marathons, plenty of half-marathons, and a variety pack of triathlons. For most races, I'm content with following a basic plan with no adjectives (fast, easy, tempo); no strides, repeats, recovery; no track, no hills. I train with just one goal in mind: to make it to the finish line.

This, it should be noted, is an absolutely fine way to train. The risk of injury is fairly low, and motivation is conversely high. Knowing I can run four miles at a pace that feels right is lovely and simple. If I know, however, I have four miles of hill repeats, I obsess on it. It haunts me when I get up in the middle of the night to soothe my son after a monster dream. In the morning, as I approach the track, I get a little throw-up in my mouth.

That said, I have randomly cranked up the training intensity for a handful of specific races. There wasn't any single reason why I decided to go all hard-core, with one exception: All of my tee-it-up races came after I had both of my children.

As you probably know, when you have a kid, everything that was once easy, like a last-minute movie on a Friday night, a stretch of five whole quiet minutes, or a shower after a run, is far from it. Although the challenges of motherhood provide plenty of opportunities to fulfill my daily need for feelings of accomplishment and pride—Look! I got one kid to soccer practice, one kid to karate, stopped at Walgreens to pick up a prescription, made it back to see one kid bow to his sensei and the other score a goal, and it's quesadillas for dinner, but at least they're on whole-wheat tortillas!—the minute-by-minute maternal victories are sometimes not enough.

On the other hand, running makes me feel like a rock star; when I return home with a soaked sports bra and weary legs, I have the confidence, energy, and ego I imagine comes with fans screaming your name. I am usually content setting my mind and body on cruise control and relishing the fact that four easy miles provides me-time, an endorphin rush, and a chance to recalibrate my the-world-sucks meter back to neutral. Sometimes, though, I drag myself out, the miles seem to get incrementally slower, and I get more cranky, not less. Two days ago, I was near the end of my run, and my endorphins should've been soaring up, not down. I should've been, "Rock on! This is my life! I love it!" when I saw holiday decorations in my suburban neighborhood: Snoopy's ears flapping on a flag as he danced for Halloween. I wanted to rip the flag in half.
So today I am at the track in the hopes of nailing a 10-K in eight weeks. Because training for a race delivers all the benefits of a regular run—a slice of your sanity back; muscular legs that mean business; time with yourself, with girlfriends, or with Ira Glass; a sense of confidence and glee unmatched by other activities—but it ups the commitment level just a tad. Training gives you quantitative measurements of your improvement, when the rest of your life is blurry and difficult to pinpoint with any kind of progress. Training lets you feel a mini-victory every day. But more than anything, training is a reminder that hard work gets rewarded. And you are worth the investment of time and energy. And the reward.

Running is a little like parenthood: The individual days and runs can be so long I wonder how I'll ever make it to 5 p.m. But the years are a blur, going by so quickly I'm not even certain I can connect Point A with Point B. How can Ben, who it seems only yesterday took his first wobbly steps, be Velcroing his own shoes for his first day of kindergarten? How can Amelia be suddenly doing flip turns in swim meets?

When I rewind through my running career, I can't remember the training days, but the races I really focused on. I remember, on my way to knocking almost nine minutes off a 10-miler I had done the previous year, running down a hill, feeling like I was flying. I remember a half-marathon six months after that where I blitzed my time goal and landed (for the first time ever) in the top third in my age group.

That was the last race where I pushed myself. And so I am on the track again, completing five 800-meter repeats. Within steps of the last one, my legs are hollering, my lower back is tightening like a vise, my head is firing up a headache that will only gain intensity. I try not to think of any of it. I round one curve, which seems to have lengthened. I battle the wind on the straightaway. I hit the second lap, and I have only one 400—a single, measly lap!—of this heinous workout left. I fight the gusts and tell myself to just "Go! Go! Go!" I finish, toss out an f-bomb just to put an exclamation point on my effort, and, as usual, skip jogging a recovery lap. Instead, I take plenty of time gathering my goods. I walk (very) slowly to the parking lot, climb into my minivan, toss my water bottle onto the floor, which is littered with granola bar wrappers, pennies, crayons, and overdue library books, and head home to my little slice of suburbia, flags and all. Feeling satisfied, I am ready to start the day.To Be the Best MeBY SARAH BOWEN SHEA

Despite my tendency to define myself by race times, I don't always love to train. In fact, when I start a training plan, I resist like a horse that doesn't want to be saddled. The reins of the dictated workouts seem too tight; the burden of nailing speeds and times is too heavy. But within a few uncomfortable days, I'm tamed, and I love the certainty of each workout. I know if I do what is laid out before me—run five miles; run eight miles with the middle four faster; rest—I'll arrive at the starting line prepped and ready to deliver my best effort, which is what racing is all about for me.

I like a training run with a challenge, with extra speed built in or hills that need to be conquered. When I mentally flip through my toughest race-prep workouts, I get all nostalgic about them, like I do when I look through the velvet-lined box in which I keep my three children's lost baby teeth. There's the fog-enshrouded tempo run I did to get ready for the 2010 Big Sur International Marathon. Portland's Willamette River was invisible from the road as I headed north to crank out four miles at a tempo pace around eight minutes per mile. Damp, pine-scented air filled my heaving lungs as I recovered before undertaking four more of the same speedy miles. In my mind, conquering eight miles at 8:00 pace felt like an Olympic-caliber workout, something Deena Kastor or Kara Goucher would do. (Obviously the fog was clouding my perception of reality.)

My sports ego thrives on the paces nailed, the hills conquered, the laps completed. Thankfully, my (aging) body responds equally well. I wasn't sure it was going to snap back after having kids: During the first run after the cesarean delivery of my twins six years ago, I was sure running would never feel natural again, and I'd never return to my pre-twins pace.

Instead, I've gotten faster. (Woot!) I've set all my racing personal records since then because I focused on building speed as surely as I worked on getting tan as a 1980s-era teenager. Two years after fully recovering from the twin pregnancy, not to mention mothering two babies plus an older daughter, I got serious about training. I built up speed, and I honed it at the track, on the road, on hills, and in my head. After a year of focused work, my previous fastest mile time became the per-mile pace I could sustain over the course of a 10-K. No matter what was going on in my life—deadlines for work, board meetings for the local twins club, or toddler temper tantrums times two—I knew I was in charge and, more important, I was improving.

But race day is always as unknown and unpredictable as a 4-year-old's birthday party. Will there be smiles or tears? Elation or disappointment? A sugar high or a meltdown?

A race becomes real for me as soon as I see the starting line and accompanying overhang. My nerves strum as I stake my place in the starting corral, sizing up my competition. That woman in the flowered black skirt looks like she did way more hill repeats than I did, and that guy over there reminds me of an older, balding Ryan Hall. I calm the butterflies by fiddling with my iPod, making sure I have the shuffle feature turned off. (I. Like. My. Songs. Played. In. The. Order. I. Set. Them.) A few quick pump-me-up jumps, the gun goes off, and the mass of racers starts moving forward.
The song "The Lucky Ones" often leads my play-list, and Brendan James reassures me with his refrain, "We're taking a chance/We're the lucky ones/This moment is yours/This moment is mine/And we're gonna be fine." Of course I'll be fine, thanks to my training, but it's nice to be reminded. I wait for the more peppy songs on my playlist, which I position to start about halfway through the race, when I shift into fifth gear. But like a five-page birth plan, an overly contemplated race plan can get dashed in an instant. Hotter-than-predicted temperatures can deplete my energy; a prerace restaurant dinner can wreak havoc with intestines; the reality of elevation gains kicks in. The pace that felt so comfortable at the beginning can feel as sustainable as cutting out all sugar from my family's diet.

That's why I was so happy with how everything came together for me in the Big Sur Marathon. I've never finished a race wearing such a massive smile. Dazzling California sun surrounded me, and I was shining with delight and relief. Around mile 15, I had hit a rough patch. The start seemed so far behind me, and the finish so far ahead. Even the views of foam-topped waves crashing into steep cliffs couldn't buoy my flagging spirit.

Having finished five marathons, including a 3:52 PR just a year before, I knew I could keep mentally limping along or I could turn the race around for myself. I'd prepared so well and followed my 14-week training plan so closely, the decision was clear. Only my mind was struggling, not my body.

So I kicked out the mental monkeys, telling them the pity party was over. Despite weak math skills, I knew I was cutting it close to making my goal time of breaking four hours. After that psychological turnaround, I never stopped believing I could do it. Over the rolling miles that followed, I let go on the downhills, pushed on the flats, and strove on the uphills. I merely glanced at the strawberry stop near mile 21. A riot of orange California poppies blooming on a beach at mile 25 barely registered. As other racers decreased their speed to a walk on the quarter-mile-long, kick-in-the-teeth hill near mile 25.5, I kept pouring it on.

I missed my time goal by a mere 93 seconds, but I was ecstatic at my effort. Even though I'm supercompetitive, I swear, I was over the moon. On a natural high for days, I didn't wallow in my usual postrace letdown. The "Oh, nuts, it's over" blues and the "I could have done better" regrets—those unwanted guests who usually arrive moments after I cross a finish line, then linger for days or weeks—didn't surface. Because I had trained well and raced as hard as I could. Before I even boarded the plane to go home, I was debating which marathon to do next.

And I wasn't sure what I was looking forward to more: the race or the training.

Excerpted from Train Like a Mother: How to Get Across Any Finish Line—and Not Lose Your Family, Job, or Sanity by Dimity McDowell and Sarah Bowen Shea (Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2012).QUIZ: Should You Race?Not sure if you're ready to pin on a race number? Here's a quiz to know if an entry fee is money well spent

1. Your child(ren) is/are:[A] More than 3 years old.[B] Between 6 months and 3 years.[C] Under 6 months old.[D] More than one of the above.

2. Your motivation level these days is like:[A] A rocket: always high, and I love to blast off! (I don't even notice how much my perkiness annoys other people!)[B] A minivan: steady and reliable, with a few shop visits for maintenance.[C] A loose tooth: wobbly, and I can't find the courage to pull it.[D] I have to use a metaphor? What's that again?

3. The last time you fell asleep was:[A] 10 minutes after putting the kid(s) to bed last night, laying out my morning clothes, and charging my Garmin.[B] An hour after the kid(s), using those 60 minutes to check Facebook and scan newspaper headlines.[C] Once waiting in the Starbucks drive-through and once with a baby attached to my teat.[D] After staying up to watch the Beijing Olympics closing ceremony.

4. You typically wake up:[A] Naturally. My body craves its morning run.[B] After hitting snooze a few times.[C] When someone screams.[D] I'm pretty sure I've been half-awake for 6 years.

5. On an average day, how many familiar folks orbit into your personal sphere?[A] Too many. With my job, Spin class, school drop-off, and church group, I'm all talked out by the end of the day.[B] 15ish: I wake up next to my significant other; talk to at least two friends on the phone; go to lunch with three coworkers; chat up other parents at the playground.[C] A handful: my neighbors, my mother-in-law, the cute, shaggy-haired Trader Joe's cashier. (Okay, I only pretend I know him.)[D] One or two: my husband and/or my kid. Oh, make that three, because dogs are really just four-legged people, right?

6. What did you eat yesterday?[A] Two pieces of toast with peanut butter; protein-flaxseed shake made with frozen cherries and bananas; an apple; two hard-boiled eggs; chicken breast with brown rice and vegetables; steak and veggie fajitas; and a large slice of peanut-butter pie.[B] Two frozen waffles; same leftovers for lunch and dinner: a pasta dish with lots of veggies from Whole Foods; a peach; a handful of baby carrots; a 3 Musketeers bar.[C] Breakfast I can't remember; PB&J on slightly moldy bread (but I ripped off the green spots), a banana, fries from my kids' Happy Meals; and Raisin Bran and banana for dinner.[D] Something, I'm pretty sure. And purse snacks.

7. Your last run was:[A] Two hours ago.[B] A couple of days ago. I went with a friend, and we did some fartleks just for fun. (Yep, that's my life now: fartlek = fun.)[C] I got in about half my six-miler five days ago, before a meltdown in the stroller/day care/nap.[D] Wait, what day is today?

8. When did you last cross a finish line?[A] Last month. And I'll cross one again in about two more.[B] Within the past 12 months.[C] After I had a child extracted from my loins.[D] Not in this century.

9. How intimidated are you by races?[A] Next question.[B] Not scared by a race, but daunted by the self-inflicted pain of training.[C] I feel nauseated from the time I pin on my bib until I cross the starting line.[D] Petrified of being last!

10. The last goal you set for yourself was:[A] Professional, financial, personal, family, or emotional?[B] To read at least one book and to try four new recipes every month.[C] To get my linen closet organized before the end of the month.[D] To make it to 5 p.m. before I open a beer. And I don't really like beer.

TALLY YOUR ANSWERSMostly A's: Time for you to aim for a PR; take on a longer distance; or preferably both.Mostly B's: Give yourself the goal of doing a race longer than you think you can do. (We believe in you, and you should, too.)Mostly C's: Get to a racecourse within the next three months, or risk experiencing the equivalent of an adult temper tantrum.Mostly D's: Grab a friend, find a 5-K, and do not pass go until you're standing at the starting line.